


for u

by FlashMountain



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Masturbation, Modern AU, Pining, Teasing, billys a skater, mixtapes, short and sweet, skater au, steve is a goner, this is for my soulmateee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain/pseuds/FlashMountain
Summary: He’s doing stupid shit on the clock again. There’s no one in the store anyways. There’s also no one there to tell him to stop.He’s making a mixtape. An actual cassette tape mixtape. ‘Cause Spotify isn’t enough, apparently. He’s making a stupid mixtape filled with dumb indie shit he found in the back, and all those 80’s The bands he knows Billy listens to. Half of the songs are just half disguisedwanna fuck?and the other ones are so pathetically in love that he kinda wants to brain himself on the tape recorder.-He was a skater boy, Steve said You’re My Soulmate
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 12
Kudos: 239





	for u

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greyspilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyspilot/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY BAILEY!!!  
> This soft, mushy fic is for you.

“Fuck.” 

There’s a thud, and something like a garbage can falling echoing its way up to Steve's room. Fuck. He flaps his arm out, fingers gripping his phone. _07:04. Fuck_. What kinda sick bastard-

“Fucking _shit_.” 

Yeah, he knows who it is. Billy Hargrove is the only psycho who’d be up at seven to eat shit on his skateboard loud enough for their entire shitty apartment complex to hear. 

“Shut up.” It’s muffled against his pillow, hair tickling his lips. Billy doesn’t shut up. 

  
  
He’s been living across the hall from Billy Hargrove for three months. He’s loud and totally thinks he’s better just ‘cause he listens to music made forty years ago like some pretentious douche. He skates at ungodly hours and scrapes the elevator with the griptape of his board like a _dumbass_ . He wags his tongue like that and likes Steve’s insta pics from _years_ ago and winks like _that_ . Like an _idiot_ . It’s been a _lot_ , the three months he’s known Billy Hargrove. A whole lot of-

He really shouldn't think about Billy when he’s got like an hour worth of sleep left. He rolls around, throws his phone down on his mattress, and goes the fuck to sleep. 

  
  


It’s eight fifteen by the time he’s toeing on his Nike Airs, earphones tangled up together ‘cause he lost his stupid hundred bucks AirPods. He’s balancing his leftover sandwich on his thermos, hair getting everywhere when he bends down to get his keys. 

He gets up stupidly early, drags himself out of bed even though he’s only got work around noon. Routines help. They’re like, therapeutic. So, he’s got his good playlist on, shirt rolled up ‘cause it’s always fuckin’ hot in California. And his routine is _good_. Wake up, put on music, walk to work. Take a break in the middle to stare at some asshole doing b-rated tricks on a beat up skateboard by the parking lot. Therapeutic. 

Billy gives him a wave as soon as he turns around the corner. Like he’s been waiting. His board is resting against someone’s car, like that’s not a crime or something. He’s got cutoff shorts rolled up over half his thighs, oversized shirt buttoned up _once_ , shoulder slipping enough to show his collarbones. He’s all sweaty, which would be so gross on any other person. It makes Billy fucking glow. 

“Sup?”, Billy’s voice is all rough and California lazy, throat working around nothing. 

“‘Morning”, Steve chokes it out, inhaling a sip of coffee ‘cause he’s not that good at multitasking. Not when it comes to Billy. 

He ignores the way he can see Billy’s muscles under golden skin the closer he gets, perches himself on the ground, stares up at the sun. At Billy. 

They don’t really talk, when Steve just comes over. Billy keeps on doing his stupid tricks, and Steve pretends he cares, sipping his coffee or scrolling through insta. It’s a stupidly important part of his life. 

He leans his head back, groans a little at the sun glaring at them. Always sunny in California. Fuck you, _Cali_. 

“ _Shit_.” There’s a board flying at him, rolling down the asphalt. And there’s a Billy flat on his ass, hands catching his fall, head thunking down softly in defeat. Steve laughs a little, just ‘cause. 

“You’re such a poser, dude.” Steve laughs it out, lips stretching into a grin. Billy doesn’t even say anything back, just dusts off his ass and sneers at his abandoned board. Billy looks back at Steve. He’s pretty sure Billy’s staring at his lips. He wouldn’t really know. His eyes are kinda busy. 

It’s like, self care. Letting himself indulge in Billy every other morning, eyes catching at the way sweat makes his shirt cling to his stomach, the way his hands move hair outta his face. Lets himself imagine his own hands there, for a while. 

He runs out of songs on his playlist, so he doesn’t really have a reason to stick around. So, he heaves himself up, takes one last look at Billy Hargrove, and heads to work. 

Sitting behind a counter for barely not minimum wage is exactly the work Steve is cut out for. Like, he’s not even demeaning himself. He _likes_ the record place he’s been working at, even if he hated slinging ice cream back in high school. Maybe that was just hatred for Hawkins. And that goddamn sailor suit. 

He spends half his shift scrolling through Instagram, and it doesn’t really matter if half of his insta is just _billy_h_. It doesn’t really matter if half his damn _life_ is Billy fucking Hargrove. 

It’s kinda a blessing, that he didn’t have his _oh my god am I bi?_ thing at the same time he stumbled into Billy. He probably would’ve died, if he’d have to deal with all that at once. He’s 20 years old, and it’s _still_ overwhelming, the way he can’t go a minute without thinking about blue eyes and bronze skin and all those always- shirtless pics. 

He gets off at seven, and he spent his break looking at the shitty skate clips Billy must’ve shot right there in the parking lot they hang at. And yeah, he knows he’s pathetic. 

-

He passes out at two, old reruns of Brooklyn nine nine still playing on his overheated MacBook when a knock wakes him up. Or a thousand. 

“Go away!” His pillow doesn’t answer. And whoever’s trying to rob him isn’t leaving. He pulls on sweats he found tangled in his sheets, runs his fingers through his hair like that’s gonna help, and goes to open the door. 

“Go _awa-_ “ Billy’s leaning against his door, eyes finding his like they’ve been waiting. “ _Oh_. Hey?”

“Hi.” It’s too much, the way Billy smiles and leans closer, pushing into Steves apartment. 

“What’s- what’s up?” His voice is rough from sleep, and cracks like he’s twelve. Billy’s smile turns into something sharp enough to cut him. 

“Just wanted to see why you’re takin’ so long today.” Billy’s voice is almost as distracting as the way Steve can see his nipples through his worn white tee. 

“Huh?”

“It’s like nine thirty, pretty boy.” And it shouldn’t make his gut clench, ‘cause his shift’s at eleven. He’s _fine_ . Even if Billy’s probably been waiting, because they do this _thing_ every fucking day. The idea of Billy waiting for him doesn’t make his heart race. That’s insane.

“Were you _waiting_ for me?” It’s pretty fucking obvious that he was, but it’s nice to hear it. Just. Really nice. 

“I had to check so you didn’t like, slip in the shower and die, dude.” And it’s probably his dyslexia that makes him latch onto Billy finding him in the shower. 

“Okay, if you say so.” Steve drags the _okay_ out, gives Billy a smile that says _I don’t believe you_. He’s flirting. It’s fucking embarrassing. 

“Will you just come? I need you to film some shit for me.”

  
  


Steve spends too long filming Billy doing stupid jumps over speed bumps and literal garbage Billy dragged from somewhere, shirt sticking to his back ‘cause of too much sun and no wind. He doesn’t take creepshots of Billy with his own phone. _He’s_ not a perv, like that. He’d never fuckin’-

“Hey, are you even getting this shit?”

“Yeah, yeah, Tony Hawk.” It’s fun, setting off Billy’s rants about overrated skaters and whatever the fuck. Billy’s ears go red when he’s worked up. Steve’s in too fucking deep. 

“Whatever, dude.”

“Why’re you even here so early, _dude_?”

“It’s good to do somethin’ before classes, and shit. I don't know, I just. Like it. It’s chill.” It’s like the vaguest answer in the history of answers. It’s cute, though. _Fuck_.

“What, are your evenings busy?” He’s not really asking. Doesn’t wanna fucking know, but it’s fun to watch Billy trip trying to land a nollie. 

“ _Motherfucker_!”

“Jesus, do you even skate? Like, do you ever do this at any other time?” Billy’s glaring at him, but he’s smiling, coming closer to grab his board. He sits down on it, like he’s an actual kid, and rolls closer to Steve. 

“Do you come here just to bully me?” Billy’s talking all low, all fucking tease. 

“Do you come here just to _beg_ to be bullied?” Steve doesn’t even know what he’s doing at this point. Flirting with Billy like he’s not like this with every person he meets, probably. Like Steve’s special. 

“Asshole.” Billy’s lips are so fucking pink. 

“Poser.” _Don’t do anything stupid._

“Twink.” Billy says it right in his face, leans forward until Steve can feel his breath on his lips. He pushes at Billy’s board until he’s out of Steve's orbit. He sucks in a breath, finally. 

“Shut _up_. Okay, but seriously, why do you come here? There’s like a million skateparks around here.” And it’s not like Steve wants him to be there, instead. He just needs to talk. Needs to hear Billy talk. 

“Do you go to those parks?” Billy’s looking down, when he says it. Like he’s looking at steve's lips. He’s gonna die, like this. He’s going insane. 

“Why the fuck would I?” His voice is way too breathless. 

“Exactly.” And Billy’s being all cryptic, and Steve really shouldn’t be allowed to make his own conclusion about what that means. 

Billy stares for five seconds, before he slaps a hand down on cracked concrete and heaves himself up. Steve’s ten minutes late to work ‘cause he forgets he shouldn’t stare at Billy’s thighs like that. 

-

He gets home feeling like he’s about to shake outta his skin. He can’t stop thinking about Billy. Like, what else is new. But it’s on another fucking level. Can’t stop replaying the sounds he makes when he falls. Can’t stop thinking about his breath on Steve's skin and his lips so fucking close and- 

Yeah. He can’t stop thinking about Billy. 

It’s too hot, everywhere. The asphalt outside is _burning_ , and he’s sweaty and tacky and his throat is hot with _something_. He’s not really thinking. Can’t think, when he makes his way to his unmade bed, collapses into it. Toes off his worn adidas. He’s got his hand down his shorts before the shoes hit the floor. 

It’s too dry, with just his hand and his kinda-hard- on he’s been sporting since Billy said _exactly_ and looked at him like _that_. His hair is sticking to his forehead, cheek rubbing against his pillow. It’s too fucking good. He’s humping his hips into his hand, down on his mattress. 

Billy’s knuckles are red, from catching falls too many times. And his fingers are _thick_ , like that. Rings making them seem all rich and hot and _god_ , Steve's desperate enough to pretend he can feel the way metal and sunhot hands would feel around him instead. 

He’s leaking through his boxers, hand sticky and hot and the _wrong_ fucking hand, and he’s biting into his pillow like he can’t fucking control himself. He heaves himself up with one hand clutching his sheets, to get more leverage. More _something_. 

He’s jerking off like he can’t do anything else, no play. Sometimes, he’ll tease himself until he feels like he’ll explode, fingers trailing over his cockhead and his balls, down over his taint. Not today, though. He chases his orgasm like he’s addicted. 

He comes all over himself with a _Billy_ hidden in his too hot pillow. It’s too hot and sticky and _gross_ , cum ruining his shorts. He’s too fucked out to care. He sags down into his mattress, and doesn’t think. 

He falls asleep. He doesn’t wake up until someone throws a skateboard into a trash can. 

-

Steve _showered_ and did his hair and cleaned his hands and- and he still can’t really meet Billy’s eyes. 

It’s not like he hasn’t done that before. Jerked off, thinking about Billy. But it was so fucking intense, so much more than a pretty face and washboard abs and _pretty boys._

He likes Billy Hargrove. And like, he knows that. Has known it for a while. But it’s real, now. It’s too big of a _Thing_ to ignore now. He can feel it on his skin, under it. Lodging in his throat. 

He doesn’t really know what to do with that. Well, he kinda knows. Knows what he thinks about, that makes it hard to look into blue eyes and not blurt out something stupid. 

It’s a whole lot more real, than other things. Other guys. ‘Cause the way Billy keeps _looking_ at him makes him feel like it could be something. 

Billy tries to talk to him, once or twice. Steve can’t really fucking focus on the words. He keeps staring at the skin showing between swimshorts and a crop top. 

-

He’s doing stupid shit on the clock again. There’s no one in the store anyways. There’s also no one there to tell him to stop. 

He’s making a mixtape. An actual cassette tape mixtape. ‘Cause Spotify isn’t enough, apparently. He’s making a stupid mixtape filled with dumb indie shit he found in the back, and all those 80’s _The_ bands he knows Billy listens to. Half of the songs are just half disguised _wanna fuck?_ and the other ones are so pathetically in love that he kinda wants to brain himself on the tape recorder. 

He’s making a mixtape. For Billy Hargrove. Like he can’t make his stupid gay _I like you_ deceleration gay enough. (It’s not demeaning. It _is_ gay. He’s been working on that shit.) 

His heart is beating so fast he thinks he might puke. He’s fine. 

He doesn’t know what makes him finish it. Or what possesses him to write _for u_ with the marker he found in some random box. Or what makes him put the tape in his pocket. 

He doesn’t even register when his shift is done. Can’t think about anything else than Billy’s smile and the tape digging into his thigh. 

-

  
  


He wakes up at six oh two, sits straight up, gasps for air. He never remembers his nightmares. He’s always felt lucky, like that. 

He finds his phone under his pillow, checks his dry twitter and drier snap before he goes on insta. Billy hasn’t posted anything new, and it’s not like he posts every day, so there’s really no reason to fucking check. 

The mixtape on his bedside table yells every fucking reason at him. 

Shit. He _has_ to give it, now. It’s weirder to keep it, when he did it and wrote _for u_ and had it in his pocket the whole fucking day. He has to. 

He puts on the Hawaii shirt he found at some dingy thriftshop ‘cause it’s too many million degrees out, slips into beige shorts that Billy calls preppy. Cuffs them until they hug his slightly-not pale thighs. Just because. Fuck, he’s a special type of desperate. 

It’s _seven am_ by the time he’s out the door, and he’s second guessing everything. He second guesses his second guessing and says _fuck it._

He takes two steps at the time down the stairs. 

Billy’s not there when he comes down to the shitty parking lot, ‘cause of course he’s not. Steve sits down on the railing, and opens Spotify. 

He’s listened to seven and three quarters of a song before he sees Billy, board clutched under his arm. His shirt isn’t even buttoned once. He looks golden, in the California sun. Steve can’t picture him anywhere else. Billy _is_ California, or something. They only work if both of them are there. Maybe Steve’s just a fucking goner. 

“Hey!” Billy calls it out as soon as he sees Steve. It kills an inch of the doubt gnawing at his gut. He _has_ to give it. 

“Hi.” He says it too quietly, stresses about it for a second, and yells it out, louder. Billy smiles at him like he’s being a moron. Steve wants to like. Lick Billy’s teeth, or something. He’s insane. 

“You’re here early.” Billy doesn’t sound like he’s complaining. Steve kinda has to remind himself how to breathe. 

“Yeah, I- yeah.” He can’t even talk normally. He’s gone off the rails. 

“What’s up?” Billy’s voice is all concerned, like he thinks Steve’s having a stroke or something. He might as well. 

“Nothing, I’m all good.” _I’m so fucking gay for you._

“You sure?” Billy puts down his board slow, steps closer. Like he wants to check for a fever or something. 

“Uhm. I actually have something? For you, I mean. I made it.” He digs the tape out of his pocket, doesn’t look at it when he thrusts it at Billy. 

“I- is this a mixtape? Shit, I didn’t know people actually did these, today.” Billy turns it around, takes in the song titles Steve scribbled on the back. He’s pretty sure Billy halts at Rock You Like A Hurricane. 

“Well. I did, so.”

“You’ve been doing your homework, Stevie. These are all _my_ songs.” Billy’s smiling, something soft in his eyes that forces Steve to look away. 

“Yeah I, uhm. I mean. I made it for you.” He doesn’t know what the fuck to say. 

“You made me a mixtape? I don’t know, that’s kinda gay.” There’s a split, terrifying second where Steve thinks he’s about to get beaten to a pulp. Billy leans closer, hand coming up to grasp at his shoulder, and he- he whispers “baby.” 

Billy Hargrove called him _baby_ , and his breath is so warm, imprint hand burning into his skin. Billy Hargrove called him baby. 

“That’s kinda- that’s the whole point.” 

Billy’s lips are on his before he even gets it out. The hand on his shoulder is pulling him closer, another curling into his hair. And Billy’s biting at Steve's bottom lip, tugging before licking into his mouth, sweat and spit and _summer_ making his lips tingle. Steves pretty sure he moans into Billy’s mouth. He’s too busy shoving his hand up the hem of Billy’s shorts, gripping his thigh, to care. 

He’s gripping him like he can’t get close enough. And he can’t, ‘cause it’s _Billy_. Can’t ever get close enough. 

Billy pulls away with a gasp, rubs his cheek against Steve’s for a second before he pulls back. He’s smiling so big the sun looks bleak, next to him. 

“Was _that_ the point?”

Steve just kisses him. Surges forward so hard their teeth clink, just a little. There’s a hand cradling his jaw, and he can feel the smooth metal of Billy’s rings on his skin. It’s better than anything he ever could’ve dreamed. 

A hand finds his waist, slipping under the viscose of his shirt. He needs those hands everywhere, feels it like a fever dream. _Needs_ it. He walks them backwards, Billy following so close they almost trip, until his back hits the concrete with a _thud_. He leans against it, knees buckling just enough for Billy to get an inch on him. 

Billy presses so close that Steve can feel every hair on his leg, every flutter of his eyelash, or something. It’s so intense that his brain can’t really process it. 

_I’m kissing billy Hargrove._

It doesn’t sound real. He smears a kiss on Billy’s jaw, just to see if it is. Billy grunts so sweet it makes him wanna kiss that spot a thousand times. He gets to three before a hand in his hair guides him to a fever hot mouth, instead. 

He wants to melt into the wall. He wants to melt into Billy. He wants- 

The default alarm goes off on his phone, vibrations shaking his body, Billy’s too, probably. 

“Shit, I got the early shift.” Of _course_ he does, the one time he’s not staring up at billy doing his stupid tricks. The one time he’s got Billy’s cologne hitting him right in the face, making his dick twitch in his pants. The _one_ fucking time. 

“Fuck.” Billy drops his head onto his shoulder. Places a kiss there. Steve might just fucking melt. 

He laughs, tries to cover up the whine building up in his throat. 

“I gotta run.” He really _has_ to. He doesn’t wanna leave. Billy’s biting on his throat all play, thumb rubbing circles on his hip. 

“Do you?” He’s a bastard. Steve never wants to stop touching Billy’s hair. 

“ _Yes_.” He makes the adult decision to pull away, ruffles Billy’s hair until he spins out of reach, laughing all breathlessly, hand trying to fix the mess. They stare at each other for a second, before Billy leans in to kiss him, once. 

“Run right back to me, after.”

-

Steve wakes up warm. Trapped in this homey warmth, a warmth he wants to chase. He curls into it, groans when his back meets muscles and hot skin. _Billy_. There’s lips pressed to his shoulder, a hand toying with the elastic of his briefs. 

“‘Morning.” His voice is shot to hell, groggy and tired and gone. Billy’s _there_. 

“Hi.” Billy’s reply is muffled against his neck, lips grazing his skin. 

He never wants to wake up not like this. He’s already so fucking addicted. 

“What time’s it?” He says it into his pillow, rolls around until he faces Billy. His eyes are so soft that he has to take a moment, just to process that. Process _them_. 

“‘S already like eight. We should get up.” Billy’s talking soft, but he’s insane if he thinks Steve’s ever leaving his damn bed. 

“Why?” He tries not to whine. Maybe he doesn’t try at all. Billy shivers, a little. 

“‘Cause I gotta get some skating done.” He smiles all sharp, like he’s just doing it for the sake of being an asshole. Steve’s so fucking hard for it. 

“No you don’t. You don’t _gotta_ anything.” _Except stay here. With me. Never leave._

“I _wanna_.”

Steve just groans. He’s still sleep warm and stupid with the high of waking up with Billy clinging to him like _that_. 

“Y’know, me and my stepsister used to go skating in the sunrise. It matches her hair real good. She’s pure fire, Steve. That’s why, and all. Gotta keep some traditions.” Billy’s talking low, slow and sweet against his shoulder. It’s the most vulnerable thing he’s heard Billy say. It takes his breath away. He wants to ask, wants to talk about why he emphasizes _step_ -sister. Wants to ask who she is, wants to meet her. He’s clingy like that. 

“Yeah? Do you meet up with her, some time?” It feels like a good not pushy compromise. Billy’s smile turns sour, just a little. Steve reaches for his hand, presses a kiss to his palm. 

“Nah, couldn’t do that. My asshole of a dad moved his new wife and Maxie to like. Muncie, or some shit. Indiana. I jumped ship. I’d rather live on the streets of San Fran than in bumfuck nowhere.” There’s so much there, but it’s not for now. Not for a morning where Billy just can’t stop looking at him. 

“For real? That’s crazy. I moved here, from Indiana. Kinda funny. Imagine if I stayed, and you went with them? Maybe we’d still meet.” And it is, it’s kinda one of those _it’s fate_ stories. Where soulmates meet wherever they end up. Not that he and Billy are-

“I don’t wanna imagine. Don’t have to. I’ve got you,” there’s a tongue tracing his lips “right,” Billy’s hand ghosts over his dick “ _here_.” 

Billy kisses his cheek, smiles into that too. And gets out of bed. Steve appreciates the view of Billy stretching for a moment, scratching his pubes all absentmindedly, before he realizes that Billy’s _getting out of bed._

“Hey, what’re you doin’?” Steve sounds all whiny, but he’s allowed, ‘cause Billy’s not in bed with him. And that’s like, a _crime_. It should be. 

“I _told_ you.” Billy’s laughing all soft at him, arms still stretched above his head. He’s built like a goddamn god. Like a statue. Like something Steve wants to worship. 

“Oh my _god_ , come back to bed.” Steve tries to summon some of that _king Steve_ shit, grins all lazy and _wanting_ up at Billy. 

“What’s in it for me?” Steve’s already won. 

“Uhm. Me? I’m in it. Come back?” _And never fucking leave._

Billy smiles like he’s made out of gold, and crawls back into bed. He loses his briefs somewhere along the way. 


End file.
